“Why did you go in the first place?” Irene rebuked me for the hundredth time. “A Central Avenue jazz club with Diana and her Negro boyfriend?”

“I keep telling you! We didn’t know she had a Negro boyfriend.”

“Well, now the whole world knows it. She’s finished! Professional suicide. She’ll be a waitress in El Monte this time next year!”

“You wouldn’t believe how the police treated the Negroes, Irene. Much worse than they treated any of us. I was stunned. They—”

“Oh, please, Roxanne. I don’t want to hear it. Will you please just show some sense next time? Better yet, no more next times! Understood?”

“Yes,” I replied, chastened.

I borrowed a dress of Irene’s (mine was ruined), and she drove me over to Jonathan’s to pick up my car so I could drive home, where I went straight to bed.

At Clara Bow Drive on Monday, Thelma had the newspapers spread out on her desk. She regarded me with an appraising look. “Back in the old strike days, a shiner like that was called the Red Badge of Courage. All the Reds had them.”

“Yes, my makeup took me an hour this morning. I felt like Picasso—one color for one side of my face, another color for the bruises.”

She handed me a stack of phone messages from Terrence Dexter. “He keeps calling. Who is he?”

“He was arrested at the Comet Club with me.”

“With you and Jonathan and Diana Jordan and her Negro boyfriend. How could you have been so stupid, Roxanne? That whole Casa Fiesta crowd is bad for you.”

“I keep telling everyone! We didn’t know she had a Negro boyfriend! We were ambushed by photographers! We went for the music.”

“And stayed for the raid.”

I went into my office, closed the door, and dialed the number; it belonged to the Challenger. I asked for Terrence Dexter, only to be told he wasn’t there. I called three or four times and always got the same answer. Then I said, “Listen, this is Julia Greene’s granddaughter, and I want to talk to Terrence Dexter.”

The next voice that came on belonged to none other than August Branch. “Miss Granville,” he said in his softly Southern-inflected voice, “I hope you weren’t too badly hurt in that fracas at the Comet Club.”

“I’ve felt better. I’m concerned about Terrence. How is he?”

“A few stitches over his eye. Booker got the worst of it. They’re recovering at their sister’s place. I’ll have Terrence call you.”

“Can’t you just give me his number?”

“’Fraid not. We don’t give out numbers here. But I’m sure he’ll call.”